


White Letch

by inkstrain (orphan_account)



Category: the GazettE
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 13:18:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3121622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/inkstrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Uruha doesn't want much, not when it comes to Aoi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Letch

It starts with just a little bit—

 **closer.**  
Because it isn't enough, not even with the absence of space between their heaving chests. Aoi's face is so damn close to his and he wonders: are they even breathing on their own anymore? Or have they been stealing each other's air from the start with how they're almost kissing (but aren't), sucking in oxygen from one mouth to the other in a touchless liplock?

 _And fuck_ –when did it become so damn difficult to get anything into his nicotine-stained lungs? His breaths have become ragged pants, harsh staccatos of _yes, yes_ and _just like that_ as calloused hands grasp and grope at him in mindless desperation. And this is all he has been reduced to, lead guitarist to _just this_ : a seeker of release where it can be had, with whoever's willing.

And he asks  
 _–wasted and willing are synonymous, aren't they?_  
And answers himself with  
 _–no, no they're not._

But it's perfectly okay. He can just pretend and _he will_ , with eyes closed begging just a little bit—

 **more.**  
Because it feels good to be boneless and satiated like he is now: skin coated with cum and sweat, his entire body still buzzing with drunken murmurs and slurred confessions. He writes down the words on the empty space underneath his ribs knowing, come morning, that they won't mean shit. So he keeps them close, tucks them away somewhere safe as their overheated bodies get cooled down by the recycled air within their shared hotel room.

 _But fuck_ –it's still so warm isn't it? Too damn warm as they lie on top of the sheets without bothering to cover themselves, exhausted limbs fitting so closely together in broken stanzas of _we're made for each other can't you fucking see._

And he asks  
 _–can we stop fooling around and be something more?_  
And answers himself with  
 _–no, no we can't._

And it's perfectly okay. Uruha will pretend and _he can_ , that everything's fine and that _it doesn't hurt_. If only to keep Aoi to himself just a little bit—

**longer.**


End file.
